


Stick Your Fingers In Your Ears And Hum Real Loud

by screaminginternally



Category: American Dragon: Jake Long
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Exhaustion, Gen, Jake's been facing death on a weekly basis for years and He's Tired And Sad, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, References to Depression, TW for some gore, Trauma, let him rest!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screaminginternally/pseuds/screaminginternally
Summary: (And then the trauma isn't real.)Featuring: nightmares, bad thoughts, angst, depression, anxiety.





	Stick Your Fingers In Your Ears And Hum Real Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s the thing: when you grow up watching shows like American Dragon, you’re thinking like ‘this is fun’, but once you’re in your teens/early twenties and rewatching stuff that gave you joy as a child in an attempt to get out of a depressive state . . . you realise that if American Dragon weren’t a kids’ show or was targeted at teens, maybe a quarter of all the episodes probably would’ve been about Jake having trauma.
> 
> So here we are.

It’d started rather normal, for a dream. He’d been in Central Park, walking through the running-tracks that cut through the more forest-y sections, just chilling. Or maybe he was on a patrol of the area? He can’t remember.

What he does remember is the way that the trees slowly started to melt – actually, the trees didn’t melt, the colour was more drained out of them, leaving only muted colours behind, with muted bark and leaves that seemed less real, somehow. He remembers how the ground stopped feeling like a dirt path, and more like ice – slippery and cold. He remembers how all the sounds in the park went dead, slowly and steadily lowering in volume until, before he realised it, everything was silent.

Jake remembers feeling he head forcibly turned toward a clearing in the trees, and there – in the gap, hung on nooses from branches, were his friends and family.

It was a uniform display – Dad and Mom and Hailey, Grandpa and Fu Dog, Spud and Trixie. All hung from the neck, their faces discoloured into a purple tinge. Long dead. Jake couldn’t move – his feet were stuck to the ground, and as he watched, the Huntsman – the same Huntsman who’d terrorised him in middle school, who’d hurt Rose, who’d tried to kill Jake so many times – emerged from behind a tree, holding a blade; and with it, and starting with Jake’s Mom, stabbed it into Susan Long’s chest, dragging the blade down her torso like a knife in butter, her blood dipping out and over Huntsman’s hand --

Jake tried to scream, to run, to somehow wake up and remind himself that this was a dream, it wasn’t real, but --

Jake woke up, his t-shirt stained with cold sweat, his hands fisted in his sheets. The Huntsman’s laugh, one he hadn’t heard since Rose had wished the Huntsclan away, rang in his ears.

Jake took a deep breath, and another one – meditation breaths, like Grandpa had taught him. _Calm down_.

He pulled his hands out of their tight fists – aw, man. He’d gone dragon-claws in his sleep again, and stabbed holes in the sheets. Ugh, Mom would have a Look for him – it was never one of disappointment, not over his sleeping habits. It’d be the _Are you Okay?_ Expression, her eyes all worried at the edges. And then she’d look at Dad like that, and he’d pick up on it, and it’d turn into a whole game of Admit-Jake-Is-Concerning-Us Chicken between his parents. First to swerve gets to hold Jake as he cries from stress and receive a few more grey hairs.

Jake pulled off his gross shirt, slinging it in the direction of his laundry basket. The sheets were wet. Gross. He pulled himself out of bed slowly – a troll had thrown Jake into a market stall the other day, and his ribs were still tender – and slouched to his closet. Since the dreams had started becoming worse, Jake had just snagged some towels from the laundry cupboard, mostly for nights like this.

He lay one towel down on his mattress, over the sweat-spot on the sheet and the sweat-stained pillow, and a second one he used as a blanket. Jake tried not to shiver.

It was 3:12 am.

* * *

On the rare night when Jake had neither American Dragon business nor social-life fun, he tended to pass out early. Yeah, this meant he didn’t get much homework done, but when your job is as demanding as being the American Dragon is, something has to be given up – either your social life or your school grades.

Jake had chosen his grades, because if he had to give up his friends, he was going to Snap.

But even when Jake actually got to sleep through the night – rare – then he got to do it keeping his fingers crossed that he could sleep without a nightmare – rarer still.

That was the thing about being the American Dragon he honestly complained about the least. Because – what could he do? Drink gross tea, that won’t work, to keep the dreams at bay? Exhaust himself _even more_ so that he wouldn’t dream? What were the options here?

So, Jake just resigned himself to twitching and sweating in his sleep. It wasn’t as if his parents were checking on him like he was a kid, anymore. He’d dream if he had to, if it let him sleep the whole night. Often it didn’t, but points for trying, you know? When he woke up early, he just tried to do homework until the tedium got him back to sleep, whatever. His teachers might not like the work he turns over, but it’s _done_ , and he clearly put effort in.

* * *

As soon as one month ends, another one begins. No break. They are relentless. That one song was right – the years start coming and they don’t stop coming.

Jake is nearly sixteen; he feels about fifty.

Honestly, his favourite outfit of clothing - when he can be bothered to organise his own clothing rather than just pull on clean underwear with the same clothes as the day before - is probably an antithesis of his usual skate clothes; normally he wears his skate jacket and pants, but at the last Equinox he somehow nailed a Look that kind of matched his whole mood these days: the dark bags under his eyes paired with a floral Hawaiian shirt. Not so much as a representation of his usual style, but it gave off an air of ‘I would like to be relaxed and carefree, but certain circumstances have made that impossible’.

Now that he’s in high school, Jake’s got a reputation for being that kid with way too many energy drinks compared to how tired he is. The tired seniors at least respect his ethic with trying to stay conscious – and the fact that he’s always willing to share doesn’t hurt either. All through middle school, Jake was so concerned about being popular, being well-liked by his peers, but now that he’s mid-way through high school? Forget trying to be _popular_ , Jake can barely be bothered to get to class on time – and sometimes he’ll just walk right out when he gets a Dragon Emergency, no fake explanation given. He’s not well-liked by his teachers, that’s for sure, but Trixie and Spud always let him borrow their notes from class, as well as help him with the homework, so his grades are always passing at the end of the semester. Whatever. He’s beyond caring now.

Has he given up?

His mom always says that she worries about his mental health – that he might be depressed. Jake isn’t sure. He still laughs and has fun with his friends, he still trades witty barbs with his enemies, he still _enjoys_ things, but Jake is starting to wonder if his Mom isn’t wrong. Do depressed people wake up at odd hours and sleep at odd hours? Do depressed people just feel sad and tired a lot? Jake does.

The first time he actually started taking his mother’s worries a bit more seriously was actually only a couple weeks ago – it was actually a good day, no Dragon Emergencies or random tests Jake hadn’t studied for; in fact, he’d gotten a test back that day with a B- on it, and the teacher praised him for his answers. But he’d had an enchilada from the school cafeteria and it had distracted him for the rest of the school day – mostly he’d just felt _vague_.

Is that what depression is? You eat something and then feel sad for twelve hours?

But if you’re depressed, surely Jake isn’t supposed to be as stressed and anxious and angry as he is.

Like, Jake spends a lot of time just worrying – not so much about his school work (at least not outwardly) – but about his job as the American Dragon. Is he enough? Is he doing enough? When will the next danger come? It’s gotten to the point that he can’t really appreciate when he doesn’t have to foil months-long plans, because all he can do is be paranoid about when the next shoe’s gonna drop. Generally that shoe lands on his head.

Honestly, is he even sad? He isn’t sure anymore. He’s mostly just exhausted all the time, and sometimes he gets this little voice while he fights that tells him he should let the person he’s fighting kill him, and the rest of his brain is like ‘Shut Up Brad, You Make No Sense’.

Yes, he calls the dumb voice in his head Brad – it’s as stupid and useful as Brad Morton, so it seemed appropriate.

Walking into school in the mornings is about as much fun as walking deliberately into a Huntsclan trap, but at least the coffee in his hand helps him keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Waving a hand at Kara and Sara out the front of the building, Jake manages to walk face-first into the school door. He can hear the kids behind him laugh, but instead of being embarrassed the way he would’ve once been, he just keeps rolling; the steps feeling mechanical.

Everything feels mechanical. Walking, breathing, living his life.

Maybe his mom is right. Is this depression?

Jake takes a sip of his drink. It tastes like sour nothing.

_God_ , he was tired. Jake loved being the American Dragon, he really did, but he was

_so_

**_sick_ **

Of being treated like the magical community’s errand-boy! Jake’d been in contact with some of the other National Dragons – and they all said it was bullshit too! National Dragons were supposed to be, like, Emergency Responders, or something. Murder and arson and assault and theft and stopping dangerous people, not plumbing problems, lost jewellery and rearranging furniture! And often without even a ‘thank you’, which was honestly the worst part.

Grandpa once told him that the ‘precious memories you make as American Dragon are their own reward’; Fu Dog had amended that as ‘the only reward’. It’s not like Jake gets _paid_. Or days off. Or nights off. Or sick days.

You’re supposed to be a defender of the magical community of any and all dangers, and you want _compensation_ for your back-breaking, life-ruining, thankless job?! Don’t be _ridiculous_! That would require people acknowledging you’ve got a thankless job you had no choice over.

No, Jake has no resentment here. Nope.

Okay, truth?

**That’s a LIE-**

**All a LIE-**

**LIE.**

Jake’s hurting.

The job hurts. His body aches after a fight. His body aches after training. His body aches during school, and while he walks, and while he sits down.

The job is exhausting. 

The job is thankless.

He wants a day off.

**Author's Note:**

> On the other hand, imagining the show being rebooted with Jake in his teens/twenties as a burnt-out millennial constantly making bitter jokes and laughing at threats on his life would be AMAZING.


End file.
